


No More Mr. Nice Guy

by shuns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A long a fatal love chase?, Dubious Consent, F/M, Maybe yes, No More Mr. Nice Guy, SMaR 2019, Song fic, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, ThorMione, Walpurgisnacht, maybe no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuns/pseuds/shuns
Summary: Thorfinn Rowle is chasing Hermione Granger through a forest - dark and deep - on Walpurgisnacht. He needs her for a certain ritual. If he catches her Hermione knows it is over, because his promise to her right before the chase wasNo More Mr. Nice Guy.She really hated Alice Cooper right now.





	No More Mr. Nice Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 3.  
> Song Prompt - No More Mr. Nice Guy, Alice Cooper.

Hermione ran.

Her lungs burned, and the stitch in her side pinched. She ran more. Her feet were torn and bleeding. She had lost her slippers soon after the lights went out. Yet, she ran. The branches grabbed at her hair and the white gown now ruined by her flight. She swatted at them with her hands; her arms and fingers were covered with scrapes. But she ran. She dodged a low branch, her hair and the lace at her gown's shoulder tangled in the twigs. She couldn’t spare any time to disentangle herself gently. She tore herself away from the trap, the decoration ripped, and she left a hank of hair behind. Still, she ran.

He was coming. She could hear him just behind her, her relentless pursuer. His voice, a deep baritone, sliced through the night. It found her cowering behind a bush, knowing he was too near. He would find her. And then what would become of her?

 _I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing,_  
_Til they got a hold of me._

The dark in the forest seemed deeper. Perhaps, it was the trees filtering out any light, or maybe it was just this night. Walpurgisnacht in German, Valborgsmässoafton in Swedish, Vappu in Finnish, Volbriöö in Estonian, Valpurgijos naktis in Lithuanian, Valpuržina noc in Czech. In English, it is known as Walpurgis Night. In whatever language, the darkest night of the year was April 30th. For one-night chaos reigned as witches, wizards and creatures of the Unseen World watched as the light disappeared at the witching hour. Then they waited beside bonfires to light path for dawn to return or took part in the Wild Hunt until dawn. The rising sun of May 1 started the celebration to commemorate the first wizard who discovered the word - Runes - and made Magic be.  

She had slipped away in the darkness. She had to get away from him. He had changed. The darkness of the Wild Hunt had caught him, and he did love the chase.

She tripped over a root and fell to her knees. They were scraped as well. Her wand went flying down a gully. Her ankle trapped under the root had twisted and wrenched when she fell. She shoved herself back to her feet, wincing when the pressure proved too much for now tender joint. She limped towards the edge of the crevasse and peered over the side, hoping her wand hadn’t gone far.

Before she could say Accio, the forest was lit up like mid-day with a Lumos maxima.

_I helped the blind to see._

See him, indeed. Just the small gully separated them. It was hard to miss Thorfinn Rowle. He was as tall as an oak tree. His shaggy blond curls fell to his shoulders. His skin was brown from too much time outdoors flying. His blue eyes could go from mocking merriment to a dead-eyed shark in a heartbeat. He was long and lean without any fat or gristle. He didn’t walk, he stalked. His giant dinner plate-sized hands were most often balled into fists. He was always spoiling for a fight.

 _I got no friends 'cause they read the papers._  
_They can't be seen with me, and I'm gettin' real shot down_  
_And I'm feeling kinda, kinda mean._

With a smirk, he summoned her wand. Hermione paused a moment at how true his words were. When he had been outed as a former Death Eater, he had tried to keep their association quiet. She had forgiven him for his past. But her mistake was she had forgotten that he was not a nice man.

Her musing had caused her to linger too long. He vaulted across the culvert and landing in front of her with a thump. She turned to flee, but he grabbed her upper arms and plucked her off her feet. He held her against the tree that had tripped her. The tree trunk’s bark bit into her back, as she kicked at his legs trying to get him to let go. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pounding them against his chest. He might as well have been made of solid rock for all the damage she did to him.

His face was a breath away. This close, she could see his hair hung free. He had lost the tie holding his hair back in the chase. His Lumos maxima had faded to a weak light from the tip of his wand sticking out of his pocket. His normally blue eyes were almost black with the pupil fully dilated. This was new. It was blood lust. He had nine days worth of stubble shading his golden skin. He had refused to shave during the festival proceeding Walpurgis Night. He looked like a brigand. Almost like he could read her mind the corner of his mouth quirked up into a crooked smile and he whispered,

 _No more Mister Nice Guy_  
_He’s sick he’s obscene._

He ground his hips against hers. She let her legs wrap around his hips, hoping he would give her an opening, a chance, anything to get away from him and his designs. He bucked against her again, this time she could feel him through the thin cloth of her dress. He shifted his position. Now his hips and one arm pinned her to the tree, leaving the other free. His look was hungry and wicked. He used his free hand to tear open her thin gown down the center, exposing her breasts. He bent and buried his head against her chest. His mouth is wet around her left nipple as his right hand teased the other. She gasped at the onslaught. She found her hands tangled in his hair, holding him close when she should have been pushing him away. His lips sucked, teeth nipped, and tongue tasted.

For the first time since she ran, he didn’t sing. Instead, he whispered, “Hermione, there’s no other way.” He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. “I know it isn’t what you want. But don’t fight me.”

“Never. I will always fight.”

She channeled the tightening in her belly and the roar of her blood from her arousal into a blinding flash. Without her wand, she couldn’t direct it. She closed her eyes to prevent the spots from obscuring her vision. With a yelp of pain, his grip loosened just enough that she squirmed free.

She took off running, crashing through the underbrush. This had not gone to plan. She didn’t know the spell could do _that_. The forest thinned then she ran out into the moonlight. It was the lawn of Rowle Refuge. The house was up ahead. If she could get there first, she could manipulate the wards even without her wand, at least marrying him had given her that.

She turned right and dashed towards the garden. She needed cover, and the lawn would give her none. She could hear him pounding after her. She skidded through the gate and down the stairs. In the moonlight, the riot of color in the garden had flattened to silver, greys, and blacks. It was beautiful. But a costly beauty. If she had known the price, would she still make the bargain? _Damn you Thorfinn, why didn’t you tell me what would happen?_

He stepped out behind a butterfly bush, releasing the heavy perfume. He caught her around her waist and swung her over his shoulder. One arm clamped over her legs preventing her from kicking. But it didn’t stop her from twisting and beating her fists against his back.

“I’ll bind you if you don’t stop it.”

“Thorfinn, don’t do this. It’s wrong. I know the rite demands blood, but please not this," she begged.

He sighed, “This is the way it’s always been.” He carried her to the inner garden. The spring flowers: narcissus, tulips, hyacinth, snowdrops had closed for the night. The cherry and apple blossoms stirred as the wind changed direction. A few petals drifted in the air then floated to the ground. Spring lasted long here. He lowered her into the soft grass and knelt next to her. His gentle action was canceled out by the violence of him tearing the rest of her dress in two. She let out an anguished cry.

He knelt between her legs then pulled his shirt over his head. He bent and pressed kisses to her mouth, down her neck, and to her chest again. Distracted, she gasped when his hand stroked down her stomach then moved towards her sex. He cupped her mound, and she snapped her legs together. His large hand forced them apart, and one long thick finger slipped inside her. She was wetter than she would have liked to admit.

“I’m so sorry. I have to do this.” She heard him unclasp the buckle. Then he was holding the knife that he carried at his waist. He withdrew his hand from her sex and grabbed her left hand. He held the huge knife in his other hand.

“P-please, no!”

He brought the knife down and slashed a cut across her palm. Then he slashed his hand. Joining their bleeding palms together he squeezed. Their blood mingled and dripped on the ground.

“My blood and yours - part of the land./ Let us care for it together hand in hand.” With his words, Hermione felt Magic wash over her - them - everything. She and he were bonded, married to each other and the land. She could feel the land. The sap rising through the trees. The water in the pond. The bugs floating in the night. The magic sparkling around them. His desire and hers. 

His mouth covered hers in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed over her skin, and none was left untouched. His tongue slid into her mouth, stroking along hers. He was teasing her. She bit down on the tip. He tweaked her nipple back, earning a gasp from her. She raked her nails down his back, and he rubbed himself against her, sliding himself between her slit.

"Don't close your eyes," he commanded.

He was on his knees, fumbling with the front of his trousers. He shoved them down. He fisted his erection and pumped, once, twice, three times. "You know I have to do it." Hovering above her, he thrust into her in a single motion. "Gods, Witch you are so tight!" He groaned and held her close to him as he pistoned in and out of her. He had no time to make love. He was fucking her into the ground, deep and hard. 

Hermione clung to him as he took his pleasure, though she could feel her belly tightening again and there was a burn tingling through her sex. She clenched, and he moaned, "Look at me. I want to see you when you come," he said. She held her breath, hoping she could hold off just a bit more, but she couldn't with the Magic swirling around him so compelling. Her eyes found his.  Three more thrusts and he spilled himself inside of here. She saw the blood lust fade.

He buried his head in her the crook of her neck, muffled he asked, "What have I done?"

She held him and stroked his hair until he quieted. She shifted, and he lifted his body off of hers. She could finally breathe. "I'll take you to bed then, yeah?" He swept her up, torn dress and all, carrying her into the house and to his bed. 

Dawn was just breaking, and she could hear the church bells ring, it was finally May Day.  

* * *

The next morning Hermione woke to find her hair full of twigs, her nails - those she still had - complete of dirt and the bed full of a large blond man. She sat up and watched him sleep. He made tiny little snuffles like a piglet. It was rather adorable. She almost didn’t want to wake him, _almost_. She pinched his nose, and he snorted awake. “Happy Thrimilci you lumbering oaf." She turned her back to him, show him her marked up back, "Did you have to pin me to a tree with such rough bark?”

“Happy um - what do the Muggles call it again? May Day?” She nodded, “Happy May Day to you as well Tiny.”

“Don’t call me Tiny. I hate it.”

He rolled his eyes and sang, “Tiny Hermione - small but mighty, always needs to be righty --”

“Keep singing, and I will replace your arm with a tentacle.”

He smirked, “Father taught me the three things I need to learn as a married man, 'One - I'm sorry, Two - It was my fault and Three - How can I make it up to you. So, wife, I'm sorry, it was my fault, how can I make it up do you?"

She sniffed, "A bath."

He smiled, "Anything for my wife. You are well and truly mine now. Marriage in your muggle church wasn't a bond. But we are bonded to the land and each other.  Well, the land is mine, so you are mine.” She snorted making here derision clear. “I told Old Magic is chauvinistic and can give a witch unexpected results.”

“Unexpected results? It was a simple bonding ritual, and you ended up channeling the Wild Hunt to chase me miles through the forest like some demon.” She threw a pillow at his head. He caught it but looked out from behind sheepishly.

* * *

 

They had to drain the tub twice before the water was clear, not muddy. She inspected the healed gash on her hand. ”This means I hold the wards, all the elves and the ley line under the Refuge?' But there was really one crucial question to ask, "The gnomes? Can I make them leave now? So they’ll stop eating the bulbs in the flower beds?”

He quirked a brow and tsked, “You would evict the poor helpless little creatures? I thought you stood for something? Bravery? Honor? Helping Hufflepuffs and all that rot? No more Mr. Nice Guy?”

“Just call me Alice Cooper.” She had been introducing Thorfinn to muggle culture slowly. Her most successful introduction had been music, especially hair bands from the '70s and '80s. With his crazy mane, it made sense. Their poor children didn't stand a chance. Brushes would flee before them. No comb would go unbroken, and bobby pins would straighten themselves to getaway. 

“Nah, I rather like Mrs. Hermione Rowle. It just flows off the tongue. Rather like other things.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and proceeded to show her just what other parts of Hermione Rowle could flow off of his tongue.


End file.
